


Yeah, They Were All Yellow

by EmilyweepsforPilfrey



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, double entendres aplenty, honeypot mission, misidentification of the target
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 06:36:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10077674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilyweepsforPilfrey/pseuds/EmilyweepsforPilfrey
Summary: The mission was simple: find the person in yellow, seduce them, make sure they were well and truly satisfied and get the intel. In a sea of monotonous and vanilla fashion choices, the man sitting at the bar dressed in a yellow cardigan stood out as if there were neon lit arrows pointing to him. It was all too easy. Nothing could possibly go wrong, right?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I name fics after Coldplay lyrics now. I didn't know that that is a thing I do, but apparently it is. Title may change in the future when it's not the middle of the night, I'm not half asleep and I think of something better.

Mission: #F756

Date: 13/03/17 - unknown

Location(s): Seaview Hotel, Barcelona, Spain

Agent(s): 007

Handler(s): Rachel Yiddle, Junior Handler

                  Q, Supervisor

Objective(s): a) Acquire USB stick containing intel on terrorist cell; send to Q-branch.

                    b) TBA

                    c) TBA

                    d) TBA

                    e) TBA

N.B. Further instructions will be given once first objective is completed.

*

It was the sort of mission that Bond hated – the sort where he was given the bare minimum information on a need to know basis. Then again, he didn’t need to be told much to complete his first objective. It was a simple: seduce and satisfy. Word was that the current holder of the USB was willing to cooperate, but wanted to get something out of it for their time. That something was Bond.

It was right up his alleyway. He’d been told his special skills were crucial to the success of the mission.

Bond went in with very little knowledge. He’d not been given a photograph or a name or anything. All he had was the voice of Q-branch’s newest young recruit in his ear making her debut on coms.

“007, your target is dressed in yellow,” Rachel informed him as he walked into the bar. He could sense a lack of self confidence in her voice. “Remember, the target is looking to trade the intel for sexual favours. Good luck.”

Had this not been a straightforward mission with relatively low risk – by his standards, at least – Bond might’ve demanded a more competent handler. Q, for example. But the input needed from the techies back at MI6, was minimal. 007 didn’t need to be schooled on the art of sex. He was more than adequately skilled in that particular area.

All he had to do was find the person in yellow and the rest would take care of itself.

Yellow is a fairly unpopular colour. It’s not that it isn’t nice, it’s simply that it’s not worn as often as some of the more common colours. If the outfit was black or white or red or even blue, he might’ve had a more difficult time finding his target. But in a sea of monotonous and vanilla fashion choices, the man sitting at the bar dressed in a yellow cardigan stood out as if there were neon lit arrows pointing to him.

Interesting, but not completely unexpected. Bond had presumed he would be meeting a woman, but this required only a few minor tweaks to the plan. It was certainly not an unwelcome surprise. Bond could go either way.

He strode over to the man with all the confidence of someone who’d been all but guaranteed a shag. With each step he took, he felt like there was something familiar about the scruffy dark hair that adorned the back of the yellow cardigan clad gentleman’s head. He just couldn’t place it…

“Uh, 007,” Rachel began, sounding anxious.

“It’s alright, Rachel, I’ve got it from here,” Bond interrupted, disconnecting his earwig to the immense frustration of the staff who were monitoring him.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked in the smoothest of tones once he reached the gentleman in the yellow cardigan.

If Bond was surprised to see the face of his Quartermaster when the man turned around, he made no indication. He kept his face schooled in a perfect mask of smooth flirtation, confident that he had the situation in hand.

“Actually,” Q said, sucking the last of his fruity drink through a pink coloured straw and removing the little umbrella once he put the glass down, “I was just about to get out of here. Do you have something to give me?”

It was direct and straight to the point.

“You move fast,” Bond crooned, wrapping his hand around Q’s wrist to feel his pulse quicken; he took a step forward. “I like it.”

Q stood, nearly matching Bond’s height. He raised an eyebrow.

“Well? Are you going to give it to me? I’m not going to wait around all night.”

Bond pulled him in close, so close that their breaths mingled and there was no question of his intentions.

“You better clear your schedule, because this is going to keep you occupied all night.”

“Excellent,” Q retorted, turning to pick up his satchel. “I do love a good challenge.”

The pair left, exchanging only a ‘your room or mine?’ (the answer was Q’s) as they made their way up in the lift.

*

A woman sat alone in the corner. She nursed a drink as she eyed up the prospective men in the bar. She wasn’t exactly spoilt for choice. She sighed and toyed with the plunging neckline of her yellow silk dress. Given all she was willing to offer for one night of finally getting some satisfaction in the bedroom, she’d thought her offer might be taken up. Alas.

*

Q busied himself with starting up his laptop as he stood leaning over the desk, facing away from Bond.

“Do you have something to give me?” he repeated in a brisk tone.

Bond sauntered towards him. There was no urgency in his pace, but he seemed to be behind Q in no time at all.

Q saw strong, weathered hands rest on the table beside his.

“Yes, I have something for you,” Bond breathed in his ear, emphasising his words by pressing himself up against Q’s backside. “I’ll give it to you.”

Q could feel Bond hardening against him.

“Patience, my Quartermaster.”

Bond rolled his hips and let his teeth graze Q’s earlobe, soothing it with a flick of his tongue. Q had to hold back a moan.

“007,” he protested, “I think you’ve rather got-“

His words were cut off as 007 grabbed his jaw to turn his head and kissed him. And if it wasn’t the most magnificent kiss of Q’s life. He’d heard stories of Bond’s prowess, but had deemed them, for the most part, exaggerations. Now, with Bond’s tongue leaving him breathless and weak at the knees, Q felt Bond hadn’t been done justice.

“007,” he began again when they separated only for Bond to latch onto his neck and start sucking and biting his way down. Q felt like he should at least attempt to clarify the situation.

“Come now,” Bond interrupted as he pulled back to meet Q’s eyes, “it’s James.”

“James,” Q breathed as if in a trance.

He briefly considered surrendering, crushing his lips to James’ and letting their bodies set the course, but he had a job to do.

“James.”

James looked at him, needy, captivated and something else Q couldn’t quite label, something raw and almost grateful. What little will Q had left to set him straight was gone when James spoke again.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

With that, James slid his hand into Q’s hair and kissed him, pushing his glasses askew. It was soft, by Bond’s standards at least, but there was still an element of control, the feeling of demand, as if he would keep asking for more, more, more.

When he pulled away, he looked at Q expectantly, as if waiting for him to interrupt again. Q briefly considered it. He ran algorithms in his head of all the many ways this could go wrong. But the look of James standing there waiting for him, just waiting to touch, to claim and to have him, have all of him, Q couldn’t find the will to push him away. He wanted to fall. He wanted to jump. He wanted the free fall and the crash at the end as long as James was there to break his fall.

“Screw it,” Q said and launched himself at James.

James would have made a comment about Q’s words had the younger man not jumped into his arms, winding his legs around James’ hips and kissing him hard. He stumbled backwards a little, gripping Q by the thighs. The Quartermaster was light, but he did make himself quite the effective projectile, such was his enthusiasm. James held him, kissing him back and stepping towards the bed. He took control and Q handed it over willingly.

Then Q was falling, literally, and Bond was falling with him, controlling their descent onto the plush mattress.

Bond’s arms bore his weight as he landed atop Q. He pulled back to study the sight of his Quartermaster before him. Breathless, hair messy and that hideous mustard cardigan rumpled. He wanted to commit that sight to memory. Not just that sight, but all of it. Who knew when he’d be lucky enough to get another mission where the primary objective was seducing Q.

Q cleared his throat to gain James’ attention. He could be a demanding little thing when the need arose.

“Of course,” James said, sounding more like his in control seductive self. He was back in charge. “I believe I have something to give you.”

“Then hurry up and give it to me,” Q quipped, an edge of desperation colouring his words.  

“With pleasure.”

*

The woman in the yellow dress waved the bartender over to order another drink. Her mouth was set in a firm line of annoyance. She was tempted to walk out and just forget the whole thing, sell her intel to the highest bidder or throw it off a cliff. But no, she’d been promised a night to remember. They had a deal, but with each passing second she was tempted to take the deal off the table and do something the other party to the deal might not approve of. She wouldn’t wait forever.

*

It felt to Q as though he’d been waiting an eternity when Bond finally entered him. It was simultaneously too much and not enough, an overwhelming tirade of sensation. His fingers clutched at the older man’s biceps: encouraging, pleading, desperate.

Bond obliged.

Q’s speech seemed to have been reduced to two words.

_Yes_

and

_please._

It was quite a feat given that his vocabulary normally ranged into the hundreds of thousands.

James chuckled into his neck.

“You’re quite the polite little thing in bed, aren’t you? You’re ever so British.”

Q growled and responded with a sharp bite to James’ shoulder.

His retort was cut short when James hit just the right spot inside him and he lost the ability to form coherent thoughts.

But his vocabulary did expand by 50 percent.

“ _Fuck.”_

“Yes,” James crooned, proud to have drawn an expletive from his Quartermaster. Normally the honour was reserved for particularly disastrous and stressful missions.

Q repeated the word, because who was he to deny Bond something that clearly made him so happy.

“Fuck.”

He was already so close.

“ _Fuck."_

Bond smirked, sliding his hands up Q’s forearms and pinning his wrists.

“Come for me, Q,” he ordered.

Q obliged.

A few more thrusts and James followed him, a husky shout of satisfaction falling from his lips.

Q lay catching his breath. One hand had found its way up to rest on James’ heaving pectoral. For what reason, he wasn’t sure. James stared down at him for a moment, muscular arms bearing his weight as he held himself above Q. He looked almost perplexed. Q felt like he’d been offered a rare glimpse of the man behind the 007 mask. Though he couldn’t say exactly what he’d seen. It felt like a privilege all the same.

Almost as if some spell had been broken, Q dropped his hand and 007 rolled off him. Q stood, immediately collecting his clothes from where they’d been strewn across the room. When he chanced a glance back at Bond, he saw the man’s mask was back in place, a smirk on his lips as he lounged back on the bed. Q could practically hear him internally congratulating himself on a job well done and spinning lines to suggest a repeat in the near future. That was more like the man Q knew, the man with the voracious sexual appetite who let his motives be known because he knew it would help him get what he wanted.

Q knew he had to get back to business.

“Are you ready for round 2?” he asked as he buttoned that hideous yellow cardigan that James had so enjoyed tearing off him.

“You’re insatiable,” Bond growled, standing and silently crossing the room to press his naked body up against Q’s clothed back, lips already at his neck.

Q felt lightheaded at just the thought that a man of his age could consider going again so soon.

“No,” he protested, managing to free himself from Bonds arms.

“007,” he began again – damn his uncooperative cheeks for blushing – “You seem to be under some misapprehension regarding your target for this mission.”

He turned back to his computer to check the security footage from the bar.

“Your target is at the bar – yellow dress. She’s waiting for you, but she looks like she’s getting ready to leave. You’d better hurry. Bring me the USB when you’re done so I can start analysing the contents.”

Q was grateful that he seemed to have regained some of his professional tone. It might’ve had something to do with the fact that Bond was at least partially dressed at this point, buttoning his shirt with deft fingers as he grumbled about cheeky Quartermasters and high expectations that no mortal – himself excluded, of course – could fulfil.

At least there was a silver lining: he would get to visit Q again that night.

A small smile graced his lips, though Q didn’t notice, already focused on the mission again. They had a job to do, after all.

Q, ever the pragmatist, scooped up the pile of Bonds’ shoes, trousers and belt and dumped them unceremoniously into his arms.

“Off you pop.”

 

   

 

 

 


End file.
